A/N: This story was written for PiOneOneZero, for the VAMB secret summer exchange. The prompt was this: "Chakotay / Paris Maquis back story - just why exactly were they so 'thrilled' to see each other in Caretaker? Angstier the better - doesn't have to get sexy unless you want it to, but I'd like to see one or both of them harbouring feelings for the other whether or not they act on them. I envisage a sort of love / hate fueled angst fest."

The timing fits rather nicely into my canon-consistent-but-not-compliant, pre-Voyager arc for Tom Paris – in fact, it was the Missing Piece between "Downfall" and "Grace". I couldn't quite see my way into a UST/slash piece though (although I do admit to the potential), partly because they didn't actually spend a lot of time together: Tom was caught on his very first mission for Chakotay. In my head canon, I see the tension between them come from a failure to understand the extent and worth of the other's passions – they are wired so very differently.

Chakotay is very much the Angry Warrior in this one - and we all know where Tom's passion lies.

Immeasurable thanks are due to my dear Runawaymetaphor, for test-driving this piece, listening to me whine about it and cheering me on.

Lord of the Dance

By Alpha Flyer

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings …

John Gillespie Magee Jr., "High Flight"

1. Tom

"This the Valjean?"

He has to ask - in the Belt, putting a name on your vessel is considered bad luck. As in, once a name becomes associated with Certain Things, 'Fleeters and Cardassians alike are liable to blast it to smithereens on sight. Without a name, they'd have to waste a few precious seconds establishing your identity beyond a reasonable doubt. At least the Fleeters do (usually). Therefore: Name = bad luck. Q.E.D.

The guy trying to fix a hole in the rust bucket that Tom suspects is his Grail seems to know that particular drill.

"Who wants to know?"

Might as well postpone the inevitable for another, oh, fifteen seconds. Name – bad luck.

"Chakotay's new pilot."

"Name?"

Okay, three seconds then.

"Tom Paris."

See how that works? Name = Bad Luck.

The man snorts contemptuously, as expected, and doesn't offer his name in return. Instead, he bangs on the hull.

"Hey, Carlson. Chakotay's latest bright idea is here. Come do your job and show Golden Boy here the state rooms."

The man who emerges from the hatch looks to be about Tom's size, but a lot more solid, to the point of flabbiness. So the Maquis eat regularly? Good to know. He makes a gesture that could be considered an invitation only in the widest possible sense, and Tom wastes no time heading for the metal steps leading up into the ship that will become his to fly, if he survives the next few minutes.

He does, however, take some time on the way up to inspect the hull. Never hurts to know where the potential stress points are, when you're about to fly a ship into a war zone. Slightly dipped wings, look solid enough for atmospheric descent; phaser arrays augmented with a central gun turret that appears stuck on with guy wire and chewing gum; a few too many external struts (reinforcing what, exactly?).

"What'cher lookin' at, Paris?"

"My new home?"

Carlson gives him a melt-your-face glare. Humour, apparently, is a hanging offence here. Duly noted. (For what that's worth.)

"One of us catches you recording specs, you're dead. Understood?"

Ah, trust – such a rare commodity in the freedom-fighting business.

"No worries, man," Tom tries to sound jovial, but probably fails. "Just making sure this bucket won't fall apart on me on takeoff."

He hoists himself up through the hatch, carefully avoiding contact with Carlson, who's obviously the sort who goes looking for offence.

"That's Torres' job. You just punch the buttons that make her fly. This way."

The upper bunk he shows Tom is in the middle of two rows of what amounts to alcoves on the lower deck – dark and dank, made for midgets, and equipped with a recessed reading light that in his case probably doubles as a spy cam. Zippo privacy plus sleeping in the fetal position - check. But in a nod to luxury there are no vomit stains on the bedding, so there's that.

Tom wrestles his duffle into the net attached to the ceiling (add lack of headroom to the bunk's charms) and turns to his escort.

"Chakotay around? Should probably let him know I'm here."

Carlson snickers contemptuously.

"He'll know. Said for you to report to him as soon as you showed up. As in, you're already late."

"Thanks for telling me."

Tom doesn't bother to ask the asshole the way to the bridge. Even in his not-quite-defogged state, his instincts should take him there – after all, a ship is a ship. Is …

A ship.

...

2. Chakotay

The bridge is cramped and badly lit; the phaser array and second-generation warp core need all the energy Torres can route to them. (Damn those Ferengi and their price gouging for dilithium crystals.)

Chakotay allows himself five seconds of nostalgia for the sparkling spaciousness of the USS Merrimac's bridge. Of course, you could fly the Valjean into the Merrimac's cargo hold without scratching the paint. Fuck it. He hurls a silent curse at Starfleet and its easy luxuries, its easy solutions.

Almost as if she'd read his thoughts, Torres spits out a "baQa' petaQ!" and pounds the helm with her fists.

"How by the gates of Gre'thor am I supposed to maintain energy flow to that damn thing, when that idiot Johnson has moved the manual steering column, so that the slightest fluctuation in EM emissions starts cascading arcs down the powertrain? I hope he dies of that Tarkalian flu. Slowly and painfully."

Chakotay is relieved of the need for a response by the sound of Ayala's phaser leaving its holster; he whirls around, sinking into an automatic fighting stance.

Stranger on the bridge.

Paris.

The adrenaline, that seething anger that seems to fuel his very being these days, doesn't cool as much as it congeals.

"Relax, Mike. That guy may look like something you'd want to shoot, but he's here because I asked him."

Maybe a vestige of civilized behaviour would be appropriate.

"Listen up, everybody. Meet our new pilot. Tom Paris. Hired until Johnson is back on his feet."

Torres runs her eyes up and down the guy; Chakotay can just see the calculation in her eyes. She likes to pick up the occasional low-life in port to blow off steam with, no questions asked, no answers given. Spirits help the guy she decides to ride when she's in one of her moods; Klingons like to play with their food, and Paris would snap like a twig under her ministrations - his reputation as the Academy stud notwithstanding.

He does look like shit, even in the dim light of the Valjean's bridge. Blue eyes slightly glassy, red-rimmed and sunken, a clear sign of dehydration and debauchery. He's at least thirty pounds underweight with clothes that probably last fit a year ago. But still sinewy and lithe; bent, not broken.

Golden Boy, indeed. Not many people with Paris' particular colouring out here in the Belt, melting pot that it is. Chakotay and Ayala, they're the local standard - big and dark, made for the rough life in the colonies. Paris will be a magnet for anyone looking for an unusual lay; some people find blond hair irresistible, especially if it comes with pale skin, blue eyes and some interesting frailty thrown in for the romance factor. Probably how he survived this long in the DMZ, fucking for money or booze.

Chakotay briefly glances over at Seska. She flicks him one of her lazy looks in return, her tongue slowly gliding over her lower lip - a bit like a snake's, and as tempting as sin itself. Her inability to keep their relationship a secret on the ship (apart from being voracious, she's a screamer) certainly means Chakotay can't really preach to anyone else about keeping their pants zipped up, and certainly not Torres.

Where the hell do all these thoughts about sex come from all of a sudden?

His eyes go back to Paris, who is casting a look around the bridge like he owns the place or wants to inhale it; his nostrils are actually flaring, in some kind of primal response. Response to what? The smell of leather and unwashed bodies? (The sonic showers haven't been working for weeks.) Or is it the cloud of burnt plasma from the arcing that hangs in the air like a Class IV nebula?

Chakotay expects to see contempt curling those full lips at the sight of the bridge; after all, the guy is Starfleet royalty, served on a couple of the best ships before flaming out and is used to pristine bridges. Instead, there's something almost sexual about that look on the man's face now as he stares at the helm: raw, naked want.

Time to put a lid on it, Chakotay. There are things to be done, starting with a perfunctory introduction to make sure no one pulls a gun on the new guy by mistake.

"Folks, this is Paris. Our new pilot, or so he'd like us to think. He's still on probation. Paris, this is Torres, Engineering. Ayala, Tactical. You already met Seska – Ops. Bandera, bit of everything."

Paris' eyes flit from one to the other of the bridge crew without a noticeable response, not even recognition of the woman who'd pulled him out of the gutter the night before. (Figures.) He nudges his chin towards the helm.

"That it?" he asks, staring at the conn, and suddenly there's an undercurrent in his voice that Chakotay can't quite identify, but it goes with that hungry look he'd noticed a second ago.

"McMaster reverse EPS model, circa twenty-three eighteen? Almost a museum piece, that. Haven't seen one of those since the…"

Paris' voice tapers off before he can say Academy. Maybe he's not that stupid after all? The man still has some filters at least.

"Twenty-three seventeen," Torres snaps a correction. "And it's a complete piece of shit. Be my guest, see if you can get something out of that thing. Seska says you're supposed to be some sort of genius when it comes to flying – prove it."

Torres snorts her disbelief. (Definitely no interest in blonds on her part, then; just as well.) She gives the console another good kick, swings the chair around and stalks off the bridge to knock the next item off her endless to-do list.

Paris' hands are shaking a little when he touches the helm. Tremors? He didn't seem that far gone last night or Chakotay wouldn't have hired him, regardless of how desperately they need another pilot right now. The Badlands are trouble at the best of times, and according to Roberto's intel, the plasma flare-ups have doubled recently, as has the number of Starfleet recce flights.

He watches as Paris' long fingers glide all over the console like they might over a woman's body - feeling every scratch, every indent, splaying a little at the controls then running over them with his finger tips only. The front panel is still open from Torres' less-than-tender ministrations and Paris bends down, all hesitation gone from his movements.

Before Chakotay can utter a word, Paris is on his knees, then on his butt, his upper body disappearing halfway in the console.

"Hypo spanner?" he asks in a tone of voice Chakotay hasn't heard from him yet. Certain, no remainder of his earlier insecurity – damn near… commanding. Ayala almost automatically throws one of the tools over from where Torres had left it; it hits Paris squarely in the gonads.

"Thanks." Like he didn't even notice. Totally absorbed. Within minutes there is clanging and the hiss of an arc. The lights on the bridge flicker briefly before becoming steady again.

Seska has just launched into a nasty string of Bajoran curses when Paris slides back out from under the helm, his pants even grungier than they'd been.

"There," he says with something almost approaching satisfaction. "That should help. You may want to have words with the moron who moved the manual steering column. Way too close to the EPS manifold. What was he, some kind of hobbit?"

No one bothers to answer, because Dalby's voice comes on over the comm, breathless and a little shrill.

"Cardassian patrol ship reported incoming into port, headed for the berth immediately to our East."

...

3. Tom

There's a brief moment of silence, and then Chakotay barks out orders. The way he does it, it's pretty clear that you can take the Commander out of Starfleet, but you sure as hell can't take Starfleet out of the Commander – no matter what he'd like his leather-clad band of freedom fighters to believe.

The man exudes authority; reminds Tom of the Admiral (which is not necessarily a Good Thing).

"Stations everyone! Red Alert. Dalby, secure the hatch for immediate liftoff. Torres, we need that warp core on line now. We can't afford for the Cardassians to find what we've got for Eddington. Paris, this'd be a good time to show that I'm not wasting my latinum on you."

Tom slides into the seat, banging the console panel shut with his knee and rests his fingers over the console for the briefest of moments. He can feel the vibrations as the engine hums to life; the world narrows to the surface of the console before him, and the hum of the warp core as it powers up.

Even with the shitty inertial dampeners on this ship he knows that he shouldn't feel her lift off, but he does – he does. Tom can feel her in the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers, powering his heart and his lungs and …

Oh, shut it, Paris. Don't get fucking sentimental.

Under his deft touch she comes to life and lifts up - up, up, light as a feather and straight as an arrow… The fingers of his left hand begin to lay down the drumbeat that will establish the warp field, even as his right punches up the impulse engine to full power.

Flight.

Somewhere behind him, Chakotay bellows some kind of order. Probably directed at Tactical, because Tom sure doesn't need to be told to get the hell out of there.

The comm crackles with voices from the spaceport authorities, demanding that the Valjean stay where it is. Here in the Tarikoff Belt they don't give a shit who docks where or when they leave, provided suitable bribes are paid. But given the presence of an official vessel of the Cardassian Union, they're opting for procedure in the name of plausible deniability.

Can't blame them, really. The Cardassians have ways to make their displeasure known.

The entreaties from the tower are almost instantly followed by orders being bellowed from the Cardassian ship.

Time to leave.

The Union's ships are notorious for one thing: they can't bank worth a damn. So the best way, Tom figures, is to streak right towards and past the thing, and by the time the Cardie can do a one-eighty in pursuit, the Valjean should be at warp. Plus, if Ayala wanted to shoot at the thing as they streak by, he'll be so close he could practically throw spitballs.

Who knew that flying with a bunch of outlaws would be so much fun?

Tom corkscrews the Valjean into the ionosphere, almost grazing the hull of the Cardassian ship in the process, and goes to warp within less than a klick of distance between them. (The displacement field, he suspects, will not be kind to the other ship and planet-side the weather will suck for a bit, but hey. Price you pay.)

All in all the Valjean is lighter and more nimble than he expected, and he pats the helm with approval. (How did they put it in that TV show? Booyah.)

"…. and go to warp as soon as possible," Chakotay finishes his sentence even as he stares at the view screen and the streaking stars of warp flight.

Way ahead of ya, boss.

"Hey, that was cool," Tom proclaims, maybe a little too loudly. He looks around to see if anyone is even remotely aware of how fucking hard that sort of thing actually is to pull off. Especially when it's your first time on the helm of a ship, and that ship should be in a museum somewhere. Chakotay at least should appreciate the art of it all; wasn't he supposed to have trained as a pilot himself?

Chakotay, though, isn't smiling, and the only response Tom gets comes over the comm.

"Who jumped the ship to warp that fast?" Torres' disembodied voice fills the cabin and bounces off the bulkheads. "We can't afford that kind of crap, not with our dilithium stocks as low as they are."

Tom isn't sure about ship protocol – hell, he's only been here for what, half an hour? – but as complaints go, that's a bit rich.

"Those stocks would be in a lot worse shape if those Cardassians had shot holes in them."

Chakotay cuts him short.

"It was an emergency, B'Elanna." He looks at Tom, scowling. "But our new pilot here hasn't figured out that there are procedures for things, even outside Starfleet. He won't do it again."

Chakotay flips off the comm and directs a full-on glare at Tom.

"That little maneuver of yours … You may just as well handed the Cardassians a written note, telling them that we had something to hide. Which may mean that neither we nor any other Maquis ship can use this base again. So next time, Paris, you damn well wait for my orders before you decide to play the hero. Is that clear?"

All sorts of things want to bubble out of Tom's mouth, starting with, "You're welcome, asshole!" all the way to, "Didn't you order me to go to warp, just half a second later?" But this is still his best ticket for being behind a helm, plus he hasn't been paid or fed yet, so maybe it's better to keep his mouth shut.

"Crystal. Sir." (Okay, almost shut.)

"You can cut it with the sir, Paris. This isn't Starfleet, in case you hadn't noticed."

Oh, man. Where to even start with that?

"Fine, but just to clarify. Chakotay. That's a yes to following your orders, but a no to acknowledging that an order was, in fact, given?"

Chakotay does not look happy.

"Just fly the fucking ship, Paris, if you want to get your latinum. Do what you're told and keep your goddamn mouth shut."

Maybe Tom should say something, or at least nod to acknowledge that he will try and be a good non-Starfleet crewman, for the no-longer-quite-Starfleet Commander.

But truth be told, he stopped listening at fly. Because that, he can do.

...

4. Chakotay

It's been a while since he consulted his spirit guide, but tonight doesn't seem the right time again and he stares at his medicine bundle in quiet rage. Why is it that fighting for the beliefs of his people, for the resting places of their bones, makes it so much harder to speak to their souls?

The knock at the door arrests his train of thought; Chakotay growls something that couldn't possibly be mistaken for a welcome.

Paris. The fact that he summoned the man does not, in any way, lessen Chakotay's resentment at his presence. If this morning's little performance is any indication of how Paris plans on doing his job, he needs talking to – before Chakotay gives him the mission for which he was hired.

"You wanted to see me, Chakotay?" The voice is almost a purr.

"Damn right I do."

The Maquis are full of people for whom authority of any stripe is the enemy, not just when it comes in the shape of a Snake or wearing a Starfleet uniform. People like Seska, Suder or Torres do pretty much what they want in their respective areas of expertise. But at least their improvisations are being held together by a common goal, and everyone ends up in the same place regardless of how they each individually got there.

Paris, on the other hand, is a joker, a random thread - a wild card that can't be relied upon to win a single trick, let alone a whole hand. He'd probably have done anything for anyone, if it meant enough latinum to be let back into a bar. Cardassians, Bajorans – hell, even Romulans could have hired the guy and not a question asked. Today the Maquis' nickel – whose will it be tomorrow?

Chakotay doesn't invite Paris to sit down, and instead watches as the man relaxes into the classic Starfleet-at-ease position, hands behind his back, feet slightly apart, straight as an arrow. It could be an insult, pulling that particular posture in this particular room, but there's no doubt that Paris is doing it without thinking – the man is Starfleet, born and bred and trained.

And good. So good, damn him. Exactly what they need – which doesn't make it any easier to like him. Quite the contrary.

Chakotay has long since admitted to himself that no one else onboard could have pulled off what Paris had earlier – not Henley, not Ayala, however many hours they've both pulled at the helm in a pinch. Maybe Chakotay himself could have done it, but not with such ease, not with such dismissive genius. Paris played the helm like a baby grand, a spoilt brat pulling off Rachmaninoff's Second without once looking at the notes.

And to think that he threw all that away, just like that … Giving up your career, your life's work for your principles is one thing. But for a lie?

Paris must sense Chakotay's anger, because he wears his insolence like a shield.

"Is there a problem with the way I got your ship away from the Cardassians? You could just say thank you, you know, and be done with it."

But before Chakotay can answer, Paris spots the blackbird's wing, the stone and the akoonah on the coffee table. He takes a step forward.

"Hey, is that a medicine bundle? I had no idea people still used those. What do you use it for - predict Cardassian fleet movements?"

Chakotay feels his anger congealing now. He's not sure what's worse, that Paris would recognize the sacred items, or that he…

"Is everything a joke to you, Paris?"

Paris eyes him for a moment, then shrugs.

"The world's a funny place. I've been laughing at it for years. So why'd you call me in?"

The smirk on his face is insolent, but Chakotay can smell the fear behind it. The key will be to find out what he's afraid of, and harvest that for the cause.

"I have a mission for you."

There's a sudden eagerness, that whiff of fear gone - but Paris masks it quickly with a smirk.

"I thought I was already on a mission."

Chakotay ignores him.

"We need you to map a trail through the Badlands for us with our small scout ship. We can't take the long way around because that's an extra three light years and our people need the materials we have onboard yesterday."

Paris is actually getting interested.

"Sounds like a challenge. And here I thought you were going to fire me."

So that's what it was. Afraid of losing his contract.

"I can't risk losing the Valjean, so I need you to fly ahead and give us an idea where we can get through. The plasma storms are impenetrable to sensors, but if you stream your coordinates to us over subspace…"

"Why don't you just give me the stuff? Wouldn't that be easier than taking this rust bucket through the roughest skies in the Quadrant? A scout would have a much better chance."

He's not wrong, of course. The Valjean is not in any shape to risk the kind of space weather Roberto's cell reported. But of the crew, only Seska, Ayala and Torres know what's currently onboard the Valjean, and that's not about to change in favour of a mercenary with eight hours' worth of history with the Maquis.

"And watch you take off and sell the stuff to the Cardassians? What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

Paris looks at him, his face expressionless now.

"An idealist. And a desperate one."

...

5. Tom

Even just at the edge of the Badlands, it was pretty obvious the Valjean wouldn't last a million klicks, even if Tom had been able to chart her a course with channels a mile wide. Not a chance in hell – if the plasma bursts themselves wouldn't get the ship, the wild EM emissions would leave her dead in space.

Wide open to the plasma bursts.

The discussions between Chakotay and Seska were short but loud, probably not helped by the fact that she'd agreed with Tom. Sending him out alone with the cargo and have Eddington's ship meet him wherever he emerged – given that his course through the Badlands would be unpredictable - was the only way to go.

Tom has no idea what's in the cargo hold and doesn't want to know; that was the deal. It's safe to say it's not powdered baby milk, though.

He pats the pocket where he's stashed the latinum. That was the other part of the deal: danger pay gets paid up front. The question is what'll happen when he's done, whether he'll get to fly again.

Enjoy the moment, Thomas Eugene.

The seat is old but reasonably comfortable, and the helm even more archaic than the one on the Valjean. There's even a couple of switches and buttons, for crying out loud. Kind of cool, actually.

"Remember, Paris. You screw us over, I will hunt you down," Chakotay says over the comm. "And it won't matter how far you think you can run, I will find you."

Desperation, it seems, does not equal trust. Then again, why should it?

"I love you too, Chakotay," Tom says, with a jocularity he doesn't really feel, as he brings the warp core online.

The man gives him the creeps, truth be told – all fire and passion, wrapped in conviction. Having a cause like the Maquis' is all well and good, but man, he's intense. Actually sounds a little like The Admiral when he goes on about doing the Right Thing – except they'd be pretty much obliged by their respective life choices to kill each other on sight.

The telltale hum of the engines comes to life – he can feel it through the soles of his feet and his fingers on the board; the thrum of the warp core sets the beat. She's old and creaky and tired; to get through the Badlands in one piece, she'll need to relearn how to dance.

The first eruption is a couple of thousand klicks off to starboard. Tom feels the ship sway; you'd think the vacuum of space would prevent any secondary effect, but not here, where the particle count is higher than in your average nebula. The lights in the cabin flicker – next time he'll have to bank her, so she can ride the wave with two more layers of decking between the emissions and the conn.

By the time the fifth flare-up shoots out of subspace, mere meters from the port nacelle, Tom's adrenaline is spiking. He lets out a whoop when the little ship seems to slingshot off the plume.

"Paris, you copy?"

The comms system crackles like that old popcorn maker his grandfather had up by the lake house.

"What was that noise just now? Is the cargo secure? Are you still on course?"

Seska.

"Little busy here," Tom huffs out as his fingers dance across the console, flipping the scout ninety degrees up to sail through a double-column of purple-white death. "Sorry, need to focus. Can't have you yammering in my ear."

Seska does not sound pleased; her irritation comes through the static.

"Just keep sending us your coordinates, so we can advise Eddington's vessel about your trajectory. We can't afford to have them trawl the entire DMZ for you – there's too much traffic out there."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure the stuff doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

Truth is, Tom doesn't give a shit about the cargo or the cause, but he sure sees the appeal of flipping the bird to Starfleet. He's not sure what he'd expected from coming forward with the truth, apart from shutting up his conscience. A demotion, sure. Instead …

Your days as a Starfleet pilot are done. They might as well have cut off his hands, his ears, his eyes. His soul.

Fuck 'em all.

By now, the little scout ship is about two billion klicks into the Badlands and the eruptions start in earnest; Tom hasn't felt this alive for a long time.

If he could keep grazing the outside of one of the plumes, he could use the shields to bounce off it, recreate that slingshot effect … That should gives the tired little scout an extra half point of Warp power every time. It's almost like skipping a stone on the waves of time and space itself.

Time to make her dance.

…..

Captain's Log, USS Adirondack, Stardate 53594.37

Based on intel provided by the Cardassian Union via an unknown informer, we intercepted a Maquis scout ship coming out of the Badlands. It was supposed to have been carrying weapons-grade trilithium.

Upon contact, the pilot turned back into the Badlands; given the priority of securing the cargo we initiated pursuit rather than seeking to locate the vessel he was supposed to meet. I take full responsibility for this decision.

The pilot managed to empty his payload into a plasma eruption before we could board the shuttle or transport him out. He flushed the contents of his cargo bay right into the vortex - even though we'd shot out his propulsion system. He … he surfed that thing like a goddamn wave.

We are now on course to Deep Space Six, to hand him over to Federation authorities. His name is Thomas Eugene Paris. It's almost a shame to think that someone with skills like that might never fly again.